


Indulgence

by ForDarkIsTheSuede (TheBadgeringWitness)



Series: Batman the Telltale Series:  The Perseverance Project [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Batjokes, Blood Kink, D/S subtext, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Smut, Suppression of feelings, do not use conditioner as lube, don't use spit as lube either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15563676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBadgeringWitness/pseuds/ForDarkIsTheSuede
Summary: [A companion piece toAt the Brink of Midnight.]Always the opportunist, John indulges his body's burning desires when he finds a moment alone. Bruce, on the other hand, tries not to give into such reckless, shameful fantasies.





	Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [At the Brink of Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432820) by [ForDarkIsTheSuede (TheBadgeringWitness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBadgeringWitness/pseuds/ForDarkIsTheSuede). 



> This is just a fun interlude to my other fic; you don't have to have read it to enjoy this!

John felt like the world outside had all but disappeared.

To have the privilege of being around Bruce was _one_ thing. Talking to him, looking at him, getting to sit near him, getting to _work_ alongside him - those were things John wouldn’t trade for the world. He could die happy, knowing he got to spend some more time outside of Arkham with his bestest buddy in the whole world, and knowing that the feeling about it was pretty mutual. (Bruce might deny that if he was asked, but John could tell. Bruce didn’t put up as nearly as much of a front anymore. He actually _smiled_ more often, with those cute little upturns of the corners of his mouth as his the depths of his baby black pupils expanded and the ocean blue irises around them glimmered slightly; they were _small_ smiles, but they were there.)

John had seen a lot of Bruce - mostly the metaphorical insides, the darkness and the bleeding heart, the brute and the giver, the sweet and the sour - but it was an entirely _other_ thing to see _new_ parts of him.

 _Naked_ parts. Gloriously hot _god-like_ parts. Parts that even in his fantasies - and he had so, _so_ many - he hadn’t really thought he’d ever get the chance to know on an intimate level, unless Bruce allowed him to play doctor.

In the three seconds it took for John to register that Bruce Wayne was changing out of his t-shirt at his upstairs office desk, John’s brain paused and kick-started, and he found himself saying ‘oh’ aloud as he hunted for the screen-shot key. ( _There!_ Click, click, click!)

Then he realized he’d spoken into the lit-up microphone by the console, and apologized properly, because of _course_ Bruce heard him; Bruce looked so surprised that John had to explain himself right away. He’d been worried at Bruce’s lack of response to his text messages. (He’d waited over a minute between each one! How was he supposed to know Bruce had been on the phone with _former-agent-turned-C.S.O._ Iman Avesta?) So of _course_ he’d scrambled to access the mansion’s surveillance program to see if Bruce was all right. He’d never have forgiven himself if Bruce had been in a tangle with the cops hunting John down outside his door and John hadn’t known.

Of course, he kept pressing the screen-shot key, as quietly as possible as he watched Bruce respond. He glared a little bit - not really angry, but reprimanding - and went about buttoning up his sleeves like he wasn’t giving John the show of a lifetime, sounding just a _little_ stern as he mentioned that he’d already replied to John’s messages a moment ago. (And yes, he had, John just missed the little notifications while he was scouring the mansion for the sight of Bruce. Oops.)

And now, here John was, camera system back off, the screen-shots he’d taken all laid out before him on the ridiculously enormous monitor, with a heat building in his loins as he struggled to comprehend it all.

He _knew_ Bruce would be hot underneath the suits. He was so _handsome_ , the batsuit made him look so _muscular_ , and he knew by personal experience that his punches were like _dynamite_ , how could he _not_ have some good muscle definition underneath? Especially since he’d been working out more lately; John noticed some of his older business suits and button-down shirts were hugging his frame more, particularly in his arms.

But he never expected _this_. Not only was Bruce a total _brickhouse_ , but he was _littered_ with scars. John’s eyes wandered over them all:  bullet wounds; gashes from pocket knives and bowie knives; burns; long mysterious lines and indents that came from who-knows-what.

If John hadn’t seen how worn-out he’d made Batman back at Ace Chemicals, he would’ve been surprised that the vigilante wasn’t as invulnerable as he’d once thought.

John pushed the memory away. He didn’t want to think on that right now. How could he, when he had a few new secrets to unfold on full display?

He leaned back in the chair - _Bruce’s_ chair, the one Batman did all his _detectiving_ in - and breathed in deep. The cave smelled like a mix of metal, old rock, and fresh spring water with a hint of wild mammal. Strange and foreign, especially by Gotham City standards, but not bad. It certainly beat the smell of bleach and musty _everything_ from Arkham. The cave was Bruce’s home away from home, so John felt like he should enjoy it while he could, until the day he made Bruce proud and got out of Arkham properly. He breathed in, letting the air recharge his brain cells as he filled himself with _Bruce_.

He was in Bruce’s home, in his chair, in his _clothes_ , seeing him like he’d been caught partway into some sordid webcam striptease. He could practically feel Bruce under his fingers as he slowly felt the armrests, sinking into the firmness of the chair with the knowledge that Bruce had sat there last, and it was almost like absorbing his essence.

He’d gotten one screenshot in before he opened his big mouth, where Bruce’s chest was almost entirely on display, the rippling muscle of his pectorals and eight-pack easily visible. He was sinfully delicious, the world’s strongest playboy, with a light amount of thin black hairs making a sort of ‘v’ shape down his chest, his nipples hard in the cool air like they were teasing John specifically. (Good _gravy_ , did he want to _lick_ those. Suck on them. Scratch them. Pinch them hard to make Bruce hiss.) Scars marred the beautiful skin in lines and dots, and John skated over the simple ones, looking for a _real_ mystery.

The long scar on his collarbone was the easiest thing to see, standing out like the glaring wound it was, and John could imagine a long blade or torn piece of metal slicing at the Batsuit. Causing a deep gash, nicking bone. Blood would dribble down the front of the armor, onto the little black bat symbol, but Bruce would keep going, because that’s what Batman did. He’d then beat the person to a pulp, maybe use the butt of their own weapon against them, and leave him to the wolves.

John blinked slowly, picturing it as clear as crystal, and licked his lips. Someone hurting Bruce _really_ ground his gears, but the idea of Bruce powering through it and stumbling into his arms was the exact opposite. John would _gladly_ help him; put him down somewhere soft, get the suit off so he could breathe properly. Then he’d clean the blood away from the gash with his mouth and let the salty sweet flavor coat his tongue.

Bruce would probably protest, say something about how it’s not sanitary and could be infectious for both of them, but John would just shut him up by applying real antiseptic afterwards. Can’t get infected if he cleaned him twice, could he?

Oh, yes, he’d wrap Bruce up good and proper, put sticky pads over the little nicks and cuts he’d gotten along the way after he licked _those_ , too, and Bruce would either be entranced at being taken care of so lovingly, or angry at him for teasing him.

John loved it when Bruce got all soft on him. He looked so cute, and it made John feel so special to be treated like he was actually worth loving. John had a tendency to memorize those expressions and think about them on his bad days, sometimes taking them and finding the opportunity to say something different to Bruce in his head, and it would lead to Bruce admitting his feelings somehow, making John tingle all over.

But he also loved it when Bruce used that _stern father_ voice on him. It implied punishment, and despite...well, _everything_ that had happened, John sort of _liked_ being roughed up. He knew part of it was the adrenaline and the psychotic breakdown at the time twisting and mingling with the love he’d tried to hide and bury, but even _before_ then, the idea that Bruce would man-handle him a little was _fun_. He wanted to be pinned down, to be bruised a little, to be cut a bit, to be hurt _just enough_.

John looked at the scar on his palm.

Then again...lying next to Bruce last night had been the greatest feeling in the world. Bruce was so determined, but so soothing and caring, like a mix of _soft Bruce_ and _stern Bruce_ at once.

Yes, _that_ was the Bruce he’d end up with. Understanding, but firm and honest. That was _definitely_ Bruce.

John ran his scarred palm over the tent in his pants, feeling a wonderful sizzle of pleasure beneath.

Bruce would pull him into a kiss. (Where were they? The car was cramped, but it was tempting, because John wanted to christen the car seats with him at least once. The bed was perfect, but it was too far. Medical bed, maybe? It was kind of comfy. Medical bed it was.) John wouldn’t be expecting it, but it would be lovingly gentle, because Bruce was a little shy about showing his feelings. Then he’d pull John closer by his hips, and the kiss would be deeper, and John could almost feel that firm, perfect mouth on his.

John hummed, focusing on Bruce’s lips on the screen above him, and unzipped his newly-tailored slacks. Oh, yes, once Bruce started on him, he’d be desperate to have more. Foreplay wasn’t too necessary when John had been thoroughly enjoying licking those cuts. John was half-hard already, stiff at the thought of blood running down Bruce’s perfect pectorals and the idea of getting to take care of him, and now that he was imagining they were kissing, he could almost feel Bruce’s hands on him. So _firm_ , digging into his bones, gliding to the back to clutch his butt cheeks like he was afraid John would disappear…

And in the meantime, those perfect, scarred muscles were pressed against him. John imagined he’d strip pretty fast in a scenario like that, so he was already feeling Bruce’s body heat. _Ooh_ , and Bruce would pull away just long enough to get the Batsuit’s codpiece off, and he’d be fully erect and _dripping,_ because John did things to him that set his libido on _fire_. Just looking at the beautiful imagery on display told John that not only was Bruce’s dick going to be piping hot and reddish pink, but it was going to be _big_. Thick and long, silky to the touch but as hard as steel - John had bought a toy just like that once, the _pièce de résistance_  of the little collection he used in absolute secret, muffling his voice with the pillow in the dead hours, and had taken such great pains to hide it from the Pact that he couldn’t remember where he’d put it when he returned to the Ha-Hacienda after his bridge-dive.

He could picture Bruce with his hard-on out on full display right now, in his office chair, gliding his hand up and down his shaft like he was giving a private show, and John heard himself whine as he copied the action, feeling the heat sear his scarred palm. He’d give anything to be there, watching or touching or sucking Bruce’s cock.

No, scratch that. He’d give anything - his _life_ , the last shreds of his _sanity_ , his immortal _soul_ \- to have Bruce inside him. Just once would be enough for him, really. He’d walk backwards into hell itself just to be one with Bruce for a night.

And so they _would_ be, on that medical bed in John’s mind. Bruce would lift him up with those strong hands of his, perching John right into his lap, and he’d kiss him roughly as their cocks bumped into each other like they were crossing swords. Little beads of precum would dribble down and mix together in a hot gluey mess, and their tongues would glide together and try to pin each other down, saliva melting in each other’s mouths as their lips bruised with desperate want.

John was gripping his own dick a little harder, feeling pressure building in his groin. He wanted him. _Needed_ him. John would pull away and beg, spitting into his hand and coating Bruce’s dick up nice and slick, pleading for Bruce to just fuck him already.

John shuffled his pants to his ankles and sucked on his left hand’s first three fingers, imagining for a moment that the taste on them was Bruce’s until he took them out with a little gasp. He slid down in the chair - Bruce’s chair - and spread his legs, still stroking his red-hot member.

Bruce would tell him to stop lubing him up, and yank his hips upward, and after a moment of teasing and assessing whether or not John was ready, he’d press in.

John wriggled his fingers into his hole, feeling an instant sense of relief; he thought hard about Bruce’s rock-hard erection, sliding inside him, filling him up, and suddenly it was like it was real.

Bruce was slow at first, but John couldn’t help but moan loudly, and that just drove Bruce to unleash that dangerous little animal inside him. He was thick and hot, pulsing inside John, making him feel like they were one whole being rather than two men. Bruce would grip John and buck up just as he pulled John down to meet him, and John felt like he was getting blessed as the sensitive little knot inside him was hit again and again, harder and harder with each thrust.

John’s eyes rolled up in his head as he craned his neck back. He wanted to watch Bruce, but he wanted to feel him _more_ , and he could so easily see Bruce holding John’s cock in one hand and his hip in the other, pressing open-mouthed kisses into his throat, groaning into him as he fucked him raw. John heard himself moaning along, whispering Bruce’s name to himself like a prayer - he was Bruce’s servant, his jester, his patron, his _anything_ \- and then he heard Bruce mutter his name against his skin, and John came with the loudest open-mouthed moan he’d ever given.

Maybe that was because his voice echoed in the cave. The bats scattered, squealing at the noise, and John opened his eyes to find himself slumped in the chair with cum splattered on his legs and the console in front of him.

John blinked, feeling tired, and looked back up at the glorious images of half-naked Bruce Wayne. He’d orgasmed in Batman’s chair, on his computer, with one hand in his ass and the other on his dick.

He giggled, hearing it echo off the rocky walls as he removed his hands, and stepped out of the pants, deciding he’d better just go clean himself up in the bathroom first, and get a towel for the rest.

He stole another glance at the beautiful pictures, and felt himself salivate. John was going to kiss and lick and stroke every wound Bruce had, and every new one he’d get, just to prove to Bruce that he would take good care of him, because he was _here_ for him until the end of eternity. No criminals or costumed villains would leave marks that mattered, and even the memories of _Joker’s_ marks would be erased eventually. They were all one-nighters, nasty temporary things that would be forgotten under John’s care, replaced with suck marks, little bruises, light scratches, and kisses that he would burn into Bruce’s memory.

After all, how could anyone else’s marks be important when _John’s_ marks were made with love?

*~*~*~*~*

The bathroom in the Batcave was simple looking, but it was still one of the most luxurious in Gotham. Spacious and smoothly tiled with a shower-head that offered a wide range of water pressure and heat, able to make water massage stiff muscle or gently kiss the bruises on top. Heated floor tiles made the room warm no matter where you stepped, and the white towels were so soft to the touch it was like drying off with a cloud.

The cave was quiet, except for the little flutters and squeaks of the bats that occasionally flew overhead. The bathroom was even quieter.

Bruce was alone. There was no need to worry about Alfred opening the door, as he wouldn’t even return to the house for another two weeks. There wasn’t even cause to worry about John Doe, who was finishing his coffee and putting on his ‘public’ makeup two floors above him.

And yet, despite the luxurious, lonesome surroundings, he _still_ found himself on edge.

Warm water poured down on his chest, stimulating the skin with all the softness of a caress. Like hair dragging over it as the person he’d brought to bed smoothed their way down the sheets, heading towards the prize between his legs. Or like a hand, just barely scraping over the skin as it tried to tease the muscle beneath into tensing as he watched a pair of heated eyes stare up at him beneath lashes, short words of longing hidden in their depths.

Bruce had many partners over the years. All short-term, all with varying shades of color to their genetic makeup. He could think about almost any color combination, and he could pull forth an image of a past lover and fantasize about them if he wanted to.

He tried desperately to picture anything, any single one, from any time in his life, but the images did nothing but frustrate him as they flashed up only briefly before warping right back into what he was trying so hard to push away. His mind kept stubbornly shifting back into shades of _green_.

Dark, forest green hair that looked and felt wonderfully soft, despite the lack of shine. Bright acid green eyes that bore holes into him, watching him move and speak like they were memorizing every single detail of his twitches and shifts in octaves.

The head of green hair brushing against his palm, his chin, his chest, brushing down his body, hair barely dampening by the running water. The green eyes looking up at him through darker lashes, idolizing him with the affection he didn’t deserve.

It was so easy to picture John sinking to his knees in front of him, like a knight kneeling to his king, or a humble parishioner begging forgiveness from their pastor. Whether his action was out of loyalty or penance, it would result in the same:  his hands would be on his thighs, sliding over slick skin and gripping firm muscle that would tense with anticipation, and his mouth would worship him without words, making his nerves light up with absolute desire.

Bruce could practically see John there, kissing his thigh, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth and sucking it like a lollipop, running his tongue along the protruding vein pulsing under his foreskin, wrapping his lips around his balls, moaning into every action like he couldn’t wait any longer.

Bruce had tried, and failed, to stop his member from hardening at the little fantasy; it seemed be eager for attention after such a long dry spell. It felt like it had been bugging him all morning, trying to jolt into an erection at the slightest touch or barest insinuation from John. It had taken so much effort to keep his cool at the kitchen table and _not_ think of John’s bare, bruised back facing him mere hours ago, almost glowing in the moonlight, tempting him to reach out and touch the smooth skin. Inviting him to kiss, to press, to stroke, to just give into the basic urge that rose in his chest when John had given him such an open, tender expression on the pillow next to his. It was what drove him down to this little piece of sanctuary.

He knew he shouldn’t feel that way. It was wrong to want John, after he’d hurt him, after he’d _betrayed_ him, after he’d electrocuted and punched and _stabbed_ him. Yet he couldn’t keep away from him - he wanted his friendship. The one Bruce had ruined, the one he’d hoped to keep anyway. He knew he didn’t deserve any kind of love from him, let alone the temporary satisfaction lustful rutting could bring, but he _craved_ it, because John seemed to ooze affection so easily, so wildly, for Bruce.

It was unhealthy, thinking John’s obsessive feelings towards him was a good thing he should want, but Bruce had so few people in his life that truly cared for him that John’s devotion was like a breath of fresh air. John looked at him like he was the sun itself, shining it’s light on him, and Bruce knew that even now John would do just about anything for him. If he asked, John would no doubt kiss him, or blow him, or let Bruce fuck him anywhere he wanted:  the shower, the Manor’s beds, the billiard table, the hood of the Batmobile - they were all free game, and they were so easy to picture it was like Bruce was watching an eclectic porno in his mind’s eye.

Bruce could practically feel John caressing his torso, running his fingers over the scars with a feather-light touch as the shower’s water drizzled down them both, and he grasped his shaft in reflex.

His cock throbbed from the pressure, and Bruce started to stroke himself, deciding that he should indulge while he had the chance. He and John were supposed to leave soon - go chase down some more of Maroni’s old thugs and get some information. If he didn’t let his primitive thoughts go now, then he might let himself get carried away later; John was incredibly capable in a fight, and seeing him work alongside him last night had been almost _inspiring_ , and he’d felt his blood pump faster than before as he landed a swift punch on one crook while John smacked another with the billy club, the satisfying cracks of bone ringing in the air. The adrenaline rush had eventually tired him, but seeing John’s grin in the aftermath had stirred something in him, making him want to grab him, and in hindsight Bruce was sure that he would have kissed him right then and there if it hadn’t been for the cowl keeping him focused on the mission at hand.

Bruce found his mind spinning something new. John was showering with him, but now it was much later. They’d gotten back from the informant’s residence, with a few more bruises and sore muscles, and Bruce was soothing him, gently pushing him against the cool tile as steam and hot water warmed their bodies.

Bruce leaned one of his hands against the tile wall, giving himself slow strokes as he imagined kissing John’s neck and shoulders, letting his erection slide against John’s pale rear. John would giggle and moan, his hands pushed against the wall like he was being interrogated, and Bruce would slide his other hand up his ribs and press into the wounded flesh, causing a sharp grunt. John would tease him and ask for more, _please, officer,_ and Bruce would oblige, working his way down John’s back with pressing fingers and sucking kisses, hearing John’s gasps and encouraging noises.

Oh, God, Bruce was _harder_.

He’d pull John’s hips backwards a little. John would be hard as a rock, the tip of his stiff cock bobbing in the air, probably pink and moist with a dribble of precum. Bruce would slide his own dick against John’s smooth ass, earning a hum and a beg to be plowed to kingdom come - John would undoubtedly laugh at his own joke, and Bruce would smirk a little, knowing John would have his mind so blown by the end he wouldn’t be able to speak.

Bruce tugged his shaft harder, stopping briefly to stroke the head, pressing his thumb under the protruding curve of it and rolling the pad of his finger over his hole as he imagined lining up to John’s ass, deigning to use some conditioner as lube because it was the closest thing at hand, and thought about John’s reaction as he slipped inside him. His back would bend and his neck would crane - that long, swan-like neck, practically begging to be bruised with suck marks - and his body would seize, making Bruce’s cock twitch as the thick rings of muscle in John’s hole clamped down on him. John would groan and try to clutch the tile, and Bruce would grasp his bony hips as he slid in further, the body that worshiped and adored him gripping him in welcome.

John would gasp out his name when he went all the way inside. Bruce would be unable to look away from John’s face, half turned towards him, completely in the midst of ecstasy. Wet green hair would try to cling to the tile the way it did to the back of his neck. Bruce’s dick would throb in the slick heat. He’d pull out halfway and sink right back in like he belonged there.

John would whine and ask for him to go faster, squirming a little as he tried to find something to grab on to. Bruce would oblige, always thrusting in quicker each time, always pulling back to the middle of his shaft. John would moan and arch backwards, and tell Bruce to _use him_. He would say he was all for Bruce, always, any time he wanted. Bruce would pull all the way out to his head and thrust in hard, making John jolt and squeal. _Did he like that?_  He’d thrust again and again, going deep every time, slow and harsh, making John groan mindlessly. _Did he **feel** that?_ Every move, every touch - it was as much for John as it was for him. _I’m not using you, John. I’m **taking** you. You’re **mine**_.

Suddenly, Bruce would thrust faster - as fast as he could stroke himself - and John would cry out, making Bruce circle his arms around his abdomen and cling to him as he gave short, violent pumps, making John spill his name from his lips, grabbing John’s cock in his hand just to touch, just to _feel_ it pulse beneath his fingers as John came with a very loud unintelligible noise, his asshole clenching hard around him.

Bruce gripped himself harder, and one last short stroke sent him over the edge as he imagined himself leaning into John’s back, shooting his seed into his hot depths, unable to stop from shouting out his name.

He opened his eyes, seeing only his semen splashed on the gray tile in front of him as water ran down his back, the arm propping him against the wall dripping wet.

There was no sound other than the water flowing through the shower head and Bruce’s own soft pants.

He rinsed away the evidence, feeling calmer and more in control, and shut off the valve so he could dry off. The soft towels wrapped around him in a gentle embrace, completely inhuman.

The Batsuit was by the door, piled up on a little bench, thankfully impervious to the steam in the air.

Determination seized him now that his basic need was fulfilled. Thoughts of John in the midst of wanton lust were shoved back into the corner of his mind, where they would be chained down. He knew that those thoughts would surface again later, but he had to control them. He had to keep them secret, had to keep himself separated from the dangerous feelings that kept sprouting up behind them. He had to not think about them, for the sake of his mended friendship and his mission. For _Gotham_.

 Now it was the Bat’s turn to see some action that morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Never read _At the Brink of Midnight_ before? Read it here on AO3 or [check it out on tumblr](https://fordarkisthesuede.tumblr.com/at-the-brink-of-midnight-masterlist)! ۴(๑ゝڡ◕๑)~☆
> 
> Edit 8/11: fixed a silly autonomy error and added the beginning note I forgot! :p atbom will update this weekend, I just wanted to upload this as a treat - I had it sitting around for about two weeks and originally planned to post it before atbom finished, but decided to go ahead and do it now because why not.


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